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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/30047085">all this, and love too, will ruin us</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/trashfish/pseuds/trashfish'>trashfish</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Hades (Video Game 2018)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Autistic Patroclus (Hades Video Game), Autistic Thanatos (Hades Video Game), Bathing/Washing, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Roleswap, Stillbirth, The Song of Achilles References, alternate title: patroclus dad hours ft. sadchilles, pat is in the house achilles is in elysium, pat/zag/achilles is platonic sorry pza lovers, spoilers for like. Idk a lot of the game</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-03-15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-03-15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-16 02:20:00</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>8,779</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/30047085</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/trashfish/pseuds/trashfish</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Patroclus is in Elysium. Achilles is not. </p><p>(or: another patrochilles roleswap. it’s long.)</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Achilles &amp; Patroclus &amp; Zagreus (Hades Video Game), Achilles &amp; Zagreus (Hades Video Game), Achilles/Patroclus (Hades Video Game), Patroclus &amp; Thanatos (Hades Video Game), Patroclus &amp; Zagreus (Hades Video Game), background megzag sort of mentioned if you squint, background thanzag - Relationship</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>133</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>all this, and love too, will ruin us</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>(title from “scheherazade” by richard siken)</p><p>hello! i am fish and this is the first time i have written prose in like 10 years so as you might imagine it is not a masterpiece. Please do not be too harsh on me skhfkshdj just a couple things before you read the fic pls:<br/>-i am autistic! i specifically wrote pat and than to be autistic based on MY experiences and bc i saw a lot of myself in them. a lot of their stims and pats memories of his childhood are reflective of my own!! its never mentioned by name bc as far as i know the ancient greeks uhh didnt really like know abt autism?? so im not trying to dance around the subject by not mentioning autism by name bc i know people (read: allistics) do that a lot and i dont wanna like. Have people think that<br/>-also i tried to do an okay job w achilles’ ptsd i did a bunch of research and read stuff on writing it i am aware that it is perhaps not the greatest and i am very sorry<br/>-the dialogue is ROUGH please forgive me<br/>anyways thats all i hope you enjoy</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>All Patroclus knows when he finds himself in the verdant plains of Elysium is that he is tired, and that he must find Achilles. The two are connected- though he doesn’t know how long he lingered on the surface, he knows it must have been months, years. Years of nothing but remembering. It had been a sharp pain, at first, but it has dulled with time, as all things do. Pain, too, grows weary with age. He is angry, so angry, and sad— hurt, heartbroken, grieving. He saw Achilles try to slit his own throat. He watched as he brutalized Hector’s body— poor Hector, who had been a good man, caught up in a game of the gods’ design— looked on, when that arrow finally pierced his heart. Patroclus had looked towards Apollo in that moment, and he had sworn he saw pity on the god’s face.</p><p>So of course Patroclus searches for him. He still loves the fool— of course he loves him, that had been the only constant in his life and now, it would seem, his afterlife— but he needs the closure, needs to shout at Achilles, rage at him, fall weeping into his strong arms. There are no markers of time here, but he knows that it has been far too long, that if Achilles were here, he would have found him. It has been at least as long as that unbearable grey period on the surface. He thinks, once, that perhaps Achilles had drunk of the Lethe, but he dismisses the thought. Until all other alternatives are ruled out, he will not allow himself to think of that. Other options are alterable. The Lethe is not.</p><p>And so Patroclus pays the boatman and makes the journey to petition the lord of the realm. If Achilles did not deserve Elysium, then no one did. He had been a hero, through and through. Merely fulfilling the prophecy, Patroclus thinks bitterly. He feels his laurels, cool against his forehead. They are a heavy weight to bear.</p><p>The House of Hades is vast, the columns stretching up into darkness, glittering mosaics adorning the floor and plush velvets draping the walls. Patroclus steps off the boat, back to the blood-red river, and joins the mass of shades waiting for an entrance with Lord Hades. The lord and master of the house himself sits behind a large wooden desk, his broad shoulders and fearsome countenance cutting an imposing figure. His voice booms and echoes through the tiled halls. Patroclus does not allow himself to be intimidated. The gods cannot take anything more from him. He is apathetic towards them now.</p><p>Lord Hades denies his request. It is expected. Patroclus had asked first where Achilles was, and Lord Hades had informed him that upon his death, his beloved had found himself in Tartarus, at the end of Tisiphone’s whip. He had killed many in the name of war, explained Hades, but more out of less honorable intentions. Patroclus tells himself that this is fine. This is expected. He had then asked for Achilles to be allowed to join him in Elysium— did he not, Patroclus argued, deserve it as much as damned Theseus? But Hades had simply told him that Achilles’ fate had been decided, and that was that. Patroclus had raised his spear, and Hades had just laughed. This is fine. This is expected. Then— a softer voice: there was a woman at Lord Hades’ side. <em>Darling, </em>she had said (and wasn’t that just something, seeing this beast of a man— god— tolerate being called <em><em>darling<em>), <em>he is willing to fight you for it, wouldn’t you hear him out?</em></em></em></em> And it had been so like something that might have happened with Achilles and him that Patroclus had had to clench his fingers tighter on his spear and swallow the ache in his throat. But Hades had relented—<em><em><em><em><em><em>A compromise, </em></em></em></em></em></em>he had said, and Patroclus had just nodded, because anything to get Achilles out of Tartarus where he <em>didn’t belong</em> was good enough. He had gone rigid when Hades had outlined the terms: Patroclus was to serve as a guard in the House<em><em><em><em><em><em><em><em><em> (<em>You were a soldier in life, after all, I suppose you must be competent with that spear<em>)</em></em></em></em></em></em></em></em></em></em></em>, and Achilles would take his place in Elysium. He had hated it as he signed it— cursed the parchment, the quill, the god before him, the whole damn House around him— but he had signed it nonetheless. And so here he stands, in this strange long chiton that had been assigned his uniform, spear in hand, before a great mirror in the West Hall of the House of Hades. Here he stands, he supposes, for the rest of eternity.</p><hr/><p>The pain is constant, in waking and in sleep, so Achilles feels its absence keenly. When he opens his aching eyes, he sees not the stone of Tartarus or the startling visage of Lady Tisiphone, but lush, green grass. He is laying down, curled in a heap, in a little glade. There are no restraints on him any longer, no whips in sight. He rises unsteadily with one word, one name, one beautiful, perfect, <em>beloved</em> name echoing with every beat of his phantom heart, and begins his search.</p><p>Shades are nothing but memory, and Achilles is trapped in his worst ones. His hair, once golden and lustrous, is so matted with gore from his final days at Troy that its true color is indistinguishable. He is thin and malnourished from weeks of grief. He clutches his spear like a lifeline, raises it at any who disturb him, at any who do not know of his Patroclus. He sends many— tens, hundreds, who knows— back to the House of Hades. And still he does not find him.</p><hr/><p>It becomes clear that Patroclus is not in Elysium. Achilles finds his way back to the glade he first awoke in. The Lethe runs through it. It mocks him. Mocks him as he paces its banks, gasping and shaking and bloody. Mocks him as he curls in on himself on the ground, bowing over his knees, rocking, rocking, panting, trying to soothe, trying to heal but he <em>can’t</em>. He is nothing of what he once was. The remnants of a star gone supernova. Ashen scraps, left to decay. He will not look at the ring on his finger.</p><hr/><p>The House, Patroclus decides, is not all bad. It is, for the most part, quiet, with the steady murmur of the shades’ voices creating an almost calming atmosphere. No one bothers him. It is like he does not exist. He always preferred solitude, anyway.</p><p>The queen— for that is who she is, the lovely woman who had called the Lord Master Hades darling and held such sway over him— is pregnant. Patroclus had seen many pregnancies in his life, and hers is not a smooth one. She is part mortal, and Patroclus thinks this must be why she is frequently overcome with nausea and spends the last month of her pregnancy bedridden. Lord Hades frets over her, though he would deny it, ordering the little gorgon Dusa around to fetch this and that for the ailing queen. Then the day comes and the queen’s hoarse cries echo through the walls. The shades all pretend they do not hear them.</p><p>The baby is born dead. Patroclus’ shift ends and when he emerges again from his chambers at the end of his break, there is a heavy silence over the hall. The queen has fled, whisper the shades, off to the surface. The Lady Nyx stands in her favored spot in the East Hall, holding her twin sons. They must be eons old, but they look all of four years old, and sleep like it, too. Except— though he is far away, Patroclus can make out a third child in her arms. This one’s head is dark. His feet seem to glow. This is the master’s child.</p><p>The child is Prince Zagreus, and he is indeed Hades’ son. From what he can gather, Nyx had used her considerable power to breathe life back into the boy, but not before Lady Persephone fled. Zagreus grows at the speed of a mortal child and seems to pull the chthonic twins with him by force. He is bright, eager, and kind, albeit in the manner of a child. He reminds Patroclus painfully of a young Achilles.</p><p>Zagreus does not bother him much. It makes sense— he is a bitter, boring old man reduced to little more than living art in the West Hall. Occasionally, Zagreus will hide behind his skirt during a game of hide and seek (little Thanatos always seems to win those games— Patroclus suspects he abuses his shifting abilities), and will whisper a question or two to him that Patroclus will answer as briefly as possible.</p><p>One day, as the prince uses him as a hiding spot, he points at Patroclus’ left hand and asks if that ring means he’s <em>married.</em> Patroclus stiffens before he answers that <em>yes, he is married</em> and <em>no, Prince, you may not meet my partner, he is not here</em>. The little god clutches his leg and lets out a disappointed huff, and then Hypnos is there and tugging him out from his hiding spot. Patroclus does not look at the ring on his finger.</p><p>The prince seems to like him, and Lord Hades is far too harsh with his son, so Patroclus indulges his questioning. He knows the damage of a father like that.</p><hr/><p>Grief and guilt. They are all Achilles knows anymore. His heart beats a rhythm of your fault, your fault, your fault and it aches, aches like a chunk of it has been torn out and cast far away. His fault his husband had died. His fault that beautiful body was lost to rot and decay, the life torn from him far too soon. His fault, his fault, his fault. He curls by the river. He wants to drink, to drown in it, lose himself to the cool relief of forgetting. But he cannot. For Patroclus, he will stay. He will wait. He will grieve. He will not drink until his love returns to him, until he knows for certain that he wants nothing more with him. Until he can apologize, beg for forgiveness. And when it is denied— because it will be, there is no way Patroclus could ever want him again— when his love is finally free of his lifelong curse, free of Achilles, then Achilles will drink. He loathes himself, loathes himself, loathes himself. It is all he knows anymore. He weeps. His tears clear tracks through the gore on his arms. He weeps.</p><hr/><p>When Prince Zagreus is thirteen (or, at least, around there somewhere, Patroclus is estimating), Lord Hades directs Patroclus to instruct him in the art of war. Of course he does, because Zagreus is a god, and as such he must know how to fight. Patroclus resents it all the same. Though he was a talented swordsman in life, he has no wish to raise a blade any longer, much less without his twin swords in hand. All he has is this damned spear, yet another reminder of the love he will not allow himself to think of. But Hades is his lord, so he will do as he is asked.</p><p>Zagreus, for all his similarities to a young Achilles, does not take to the blade easily. He is too clumsy, too brash, too unused to his newly gangly limbs. They fight with wooden practice swords, and Zagreus tells him one day that Patroclus is holding back. He merely raises his eyebrows and waits.</p><p>“Oh, come on,” says the prince, ”I can tell you’re not giving it your all.” Patroclus has never been one for explanations, so he shakes his head and wordlessly goes to retrieve another wooden sword. Zagreus’ eyes go round when he sees Patroclus return wielding with both hands, and Patroclus just gives him a half-grin and attacks with his left. Zagreus laughs, delighted, and throws himself with all his usual eagerness into the fight.</p><p>When Zagreus is panting and they are both sweating, they drop their swords and sit on the stone of the courtyard. Tartarus stretches below them. It is then that Zagreus asks again about Achilles, though indirectly. “Sir,” he says, “is it— normal, for men to like other men? Romantically, I mean.” Patroclus raises his eyebrows and chuckles mirthlessly.</p><p>“I should hope so, Prince, or else I lived a very abnormal life indeed.” (Patroclus had, in fact, lived a very abnormal life, and it was such due in no small part to Achilles.) Zagreus flushes and looks down at his hands, twisting them in his lap.</p><p>“Right. Your husband.”</p><p>“My husband, indeed,” Patroclus agrees.</p><p>“Isn’t there— You could ask Father if he could visit sometimes. You’re <em>married,”</em> he says earnestly. Zagreus acts as though their marriage was a sacred, legally binding thing, instead of the secret, rushed affair in their tent under the stars. Though, Patroclus supposes, there is no way for him to know otherwise. He does not know the ways of the surface.</p><p>“Do you think,” he says, perhaps a little sharply, “that I have not tried?” The prince flinches, and Patroclus hurries to fix it. He will be good to the young prince. He needs a father.</p><p>“Apologies, Prince. You meant only to help. It is simply— difficult, you see, to speak of him.” Zagreus nods, glancing away.</p><p>“But enough of me. Why did you ask, Prince? Might it have something to do with that little death god of yours?” he teases. He can do this. Zagreus needs a father. He can be that for him. He can.</p><p>His redirect works. Zagreus blushes deeper, his face red as the Styx, and scratches the back of his neck.</p><p>“Well, I don’t— maybe? Meg is so pretty, and she doesn’t even give me the time of day or night, but Than… He’s so pretty <em>too,</em> and he’s so cute and sweet to me…” Patroclus never would have guessed he would spend his afterlife advising a god, nor that he would hear the god of death described as “cute.” How surreal this all is.<em><em><br/></em></em></p><p>“Well, Prince, I must admit that I lack experience in this area. However… Pining will do you no good. If you feel for them, make your affections clear.” Explicitness had not won him Achilles’ affections, though that was more the fault of his mother than his love himself.</p><p>Zagreus nods, a determined look on his face, and thanks him. Distantly, he feels the tug of the pact at the edge of his mind. Back to his post, then. He puts away their practice weapons, helps Zagreus off the ground. Puts a hand on his slim shoulder and offers as gentle and genuine a smile as he can. He can do this. He really can.</p><hr/><p>Achilles does not deserve to be in Elysium. He knows this. He deserves Tartarus, deserves the unyielding whip of Lady Tisiphone, deserves eternal torment. But then he thinks that perhaps he deserves <em>this.</em> Deserves to be trapped far from his love in a gilded cage.</p><p>Once, he tries to leave. He offers a golden coin to the Lord Charon to take him to Lord Hades. There, he thinks, he could find out what had become of his husband. But Charon refuses. Achilles falls to his knees, begs the boatman, but he just groans and pushes off the bank with his oar and then he is gone. Achilles understands. He is not to leave Elysium.</p><p>There is nothing for him here. He misses Tartarus, misses the pain he knows he deserves. His own blood joins the mess on his hands and arms. How strange that a shade should bleed. How strange that <em>he</em> should bleed.</p><hr/><p>Patroclus teaches Prince Zagreus as he had taught the young soldiers at Troy, but he also teaches him humility, the dangers of hubris and wrath. He sees the same fire that had burned once in Achilles and is determined to guide it in a different direction. To warm the hearth, rather than raze the village.</p><p>Zagreus grows into a painfully kind young man. Patroclus sees much of himself in him, a fact he is proud of, but still he is so very like Achilles. He loves with everything he has, throws all of himself into everything he does, full of that restless energy. Patroclus is lucky to receive that love. Zagreus tells him once, rather awkwardly, that he feels Patroclus is more his father than Hades is. Patroclus is not a soft man, has never been, but he melts at this, pulls the prince into a tight embrace. My son, he murmurs. He wishes Achilles were here to see it. Patroclus is not a soft man. Achilles would be proud.</p><p>He watches the prince and his god of death dance around each other. The prince is insistent, fiery, but despite Patroclus’ urging to be more explicit, he never tells Lord Thanatos the true depth of his feelings.</p><p>Thanatos is his sort, Patroclus thinks. He is collected and stoic, but there is at all times a hint of panic in his movements, as if he is monitoring everything he does carefully so as not to slip up. He prefers silence and solitude, except for when it comes to the prince— and, eventually, Patroclus. Patroclus finds him sitting in the lounge one day and, on a whim, joins him. Thanatos nods at him and he nods back, and they drink in silence. When his break is up, he stands, bows to Thanatos, and leaves.</p><p>It becomes a routine, but over time, their tongues begin to loosen. Often, they speak of Zagreus. On occasion, Thanatos speaks of his work. Patroclus learns that he is, under his cool exterior, a kind and gentle man, not unlike himself. He learns that Thanatos does not blame the mortals for fearing and cursing him, but that it weighs on him anyway. He is the god of <em>gentle</em> death, he explains. He wishes they would remember that. Patroclus wishes it had been Thanatos who had guided his soul to Hades.</p><p>Thanatos is intelligent and efficient, does not like to break his routine. He is calm, but his eyes flit around restlessly and his fingers worry at anything near. He is, as Patroclus first thought, another of his sort.</p><p>Patroclus had been soft like Thanatos once. When he was a young boy, when his father would berate him for breaking some “common knowledge” rule of etiquette. When that boy had crossed one of Patroclus’ invisible lines and paid the price. When he had earnestly done as instructed and <em>told them what had happened</em> and found himself exiled for it. When he was again avoided by the other boys, first for being so very <em>strange</em> and then for being a murderer. When he had hidden himself away to imagine a different world and then Achilles had found him and pulled Patroclus by force into his. But Achilles had built him up, had helped him construct sturdy armor around himself (how ironic). He had always been good with patterns, and in the war, he found himself often assisting Odysseus (gods damn him) in war plans and tactics.</p><p>Now, after so long spent hardened by war and by grief, Patroclus learns to soften again, just a bit. Learns how to dismantle that armor for Zagreus and for Thanatos, because Zagreus needs a father and Thanatos needs a friend. He locks his agony in a box in the back of his mind. There is no room for his pain here.</p><hr/><p>Achilles grows older. He should not, he is dead, but he feels it all the same. Feels his joints begin to ache, his muscles begin to weaken. He knows that, had he a mirror, he would see deep lines etched below his eyes. Once, Patroclus had wanted to grow old together. They never got the chance.</p><hr/><p>Zagreus finds out about Persephone at last. He comes to Patroclus with an eager, determined look on his face and tells him he is leaving. Patroclus nods. Later, he retrieves the godly weapons locked in the training room and places them in the Prince’s courtyard. He will need them in his escape.</p><p>Patroclus does not allow his feelings an inch. He will be strong, steady for Zagreus. He will help him. He can do this. It is what a father should do.</p><p>And then— Thanatos comes back right after Zagreus leaves for the first time. He glances around, and, finding no sign of Zagreus, throws a meaningful look towards Patroclus. As soon as his shift is up, he joins Thanatos in the lounge. As he explains, Thanatos’ eyes trace the patterns on the table. Patroclus watches his elegant fingers dance on the short length of chain at his gorget. He worries at his lower lip. He is not taking this well. Patroclus does not know how to help. Comfort was never his strong suit. Thanatos looks up and his eyes are glassy, filled with tears, and it nearly breaks Patroclus. He holds out a hand and Thanatos takes it, nearly crushing it in his grip, squeezing his eyes shut. He sways gently, back and forth, and Patroclus just strokes his thumb along the smooth skin of Thanatos’ hand. He will be steady. It is what a friend should do.</p><hr/><p>There is someone in Achilles’ glade. He rises from his position in the grass and grabs his spear. The cuts on his palm sting against its shaft. Whoever it is is smashing the pots by the gate and grunting loudly. Achilles sees a dark head, glowing laurels. He hurls his spear. The stranger turns and sees the spear hurtling towards him and manages to dodge at the last moment. Achilles wills his spear to return to his hand and takes aim again as the stranger dashes towards him. Hitting a moving target had never been a problem. But then he notices the stranger’s feet— they appear to be on fire, glowing and sizzling where they touch the grass— and he pauses just long enough for this new visitor to reach him.</p><p>“Hello,” he says, panting, a lopsided grin on his face. “I’m Zagreus. I’m just passing through. I’m, er, I’m the prince.” Achilles just stares.</p><p>“Er, can I ask your name, sir?” The stranger— Zagreus, the prince— asks earnestly. Achilles shakes his head, shakes his head. He cannot say. He does not want to speak his name. He is shaking now. Zagreus is saying something, reaching out a hand,</p><p>(Odysseus, reaching out to him, beseeching him to eat. Tearing his sword from his hand as he brings it to his throat.)</p><p><br/>smiling concernedly at him. He knows that smile</p><p><br/>(Patroclus binding his shallow wounds after a battle. Patroclus telling him to <em>be more careful next time, love.<em>). </em></em>Achilles scrambles away</p><p><br/>(rot in the air, blood and flesh and decay)</p><p><br/>dropping his spear, running. Running</p><p><br/>(fingers in his hair, braiding it. Gentle, always so gentle, his love)</p><p><br/>running, running.</p><hr/><p>Zagreus cannot die permanently. He emerges from the Styx after every attempt, sloshing and dripping its red waters all over the hall. He tells Patroclus of his exploits, occasionally gifts him bottles of nectar. Three sit untouched in his chambers.</p><p>This time, Zagreus looks preoccupied, disturbed. He makes his way over to Patroclus and stands before him silently, shoving a hand through his unruly hair. Patroclus raises his eyebrows and waits.</p><p>“I… made it to Elysium sir.” Patroclus offers a small smile at this. He is getting closer.</p><p>“Congratulations, Prince. Surely, this is something to be celebrated, no?” Zagreus huffs, thrusts his hand into his hair again.</p><p>“Well, yes, but… I just… I met a shade there who— well, he worried me, sir.” Patroclus waits for him to elaborate.</p><p>“He… he was covered in blood. All over. I couldn’t tell you what color his hair was. It was just soaked. And he threw his spear at me, but he missed, and then he sort of froze up. I asked his name, and he shook his head, and then I noticed he was shaking so I reached out to, I don’t know, touch his shoulder, and he flinched and ran. I don’t know what I did. I just— I wanted to help him.” The prince’s voice takes on a desperate, high note. Patroclus isn’t quite sure what to say. There had been men like that at war, who, when reminded of an injury, or a lost comrade, would lose themselves a bit, drift in time for a while. Patroclus had always deferred to others in those situations. He had never known what to do. He knows Zagreus wants advice, and so he tries. It is what a father should do.</p><p>“You know, Prince, that shades are just memories?” Zagreus nods. “Sometimes… sometimes, men lose themselves to the past, to those memories. I imagine it would only be amplified for a shade. From my experience, nectar can ease them a bit, if only for a while. You may try giving this shade of yours some. And,” he adds wryly, meddling, “you may consider giving some to your death god. It might mean a great deal to him.” Zagreus flushes red to his ears. Oh, how Patroclus loves to tease his son.</p><p>“I’ll keep that in mind, thank you, sir. And… well, I don’t think Than really wants to see me right now. He isn’t exactly happy with me. I just… I don’t know why he won’t understand that I have to do this. It’s not even about him!” Clearly, this frustration has been building for a while. And clearly, Zagreus is not using his head.</p><p>“Prince, I think there must be only air inside your skull,” Patroclus begins mildly, “or else you have lost your eyesight out in the heat of Asphodel. Did you not begin attempting to court Lord Thanatos just before you started your attempts? Did you tell him you were leaving? Did you explain yourself to him?” Zagreus looks at the floor.</p><p>“I— well, no, but he was off on an assignment!” Zagreus exclaims indignantly.</p><p>“You know as well as I do that that is no excuse. He believes you have abandoned him. Fix it.” Patroclus is firm. He will not allow any argument.</p><p>“But—“ Zagreus tries. This boy truly tests his patience.</p><p>“No, Prince. Fix it.” He will be steady. He will help them both through this. It is what a father should do. It is what a friend should do.</p><hr/><p>The stranger is back. Achilles hears the sizzle of burning feet on soft grass and does not bother to rise. He rocks in place where he sits, hunched by the river, staring at nothing. The footsteps come closer, soft and hesitant, and then Achilles sees the skulls on his greaves and watches as he sits down beside him out of the corner of his eye.</p><p>“Sir? I… er, I brought you something,” says the stranger in a gentle tone. It is the one Patroclus had used on the horses. Achilles sees something honey-colored and gleaming in his periphery and draws tighter into himself.</p><p>“It’s nectar. It might help you feel better. Please drink it.” Nectar. The drink of the gods. Some coherent part of Achilles wants to laugh. Once, he’d dreamed himself a god on Olympus, drinking nectar in excess. And here he is, being offered the very same drink, barely a scrap of pain and memory. He takes the bottle.</p><p>The stranger makes an encouraging sort of noise as he takes it. He means to open it, but the blood on his hands slicks the glass and he scrabbles at the cork with weak fingers. Tears leak from his eyes. He cannot stand himself.</p><p>The stranger takes the bottle back gently and removes the stopper, pressing it into Achilles’ scarred, waiting palm. He brings it to his lips.<br/>The nectar is warm and light and sweet. It is sunlight bottled. It tastes like Patroclus’ mouth the first time he had tasted it, under an olive tree by his mother’s sea when they were still so young. He sobs as he drains the bottle, choking on the thick nectar, and then there is nothing left, just an empty bottle.</p><p><em>“Patroclus,” </em>he gasps, pulling his arms around his middle, holding himself together as best he can.</p><p>“Patroclus? What about him, sir?” the stranger says, bringing him back to himself. And <em>oh</em>, he knows him, knows his husband, and Achilles turns, kneels before him, bows, his shaking fingers close enough to feel the heat radiating off those flaming calves.</p><p>“Please,” he begs, “Tell me where he is. Please. <em><em><em><em><em>Please.”</em></em></em></em></em> His hoarse voice breaks and cracks.</p><p>“He’s back at the House. Why? Do you—“ and then the stranger gasps. “That ring. You— You’re his husband. Oh, gods. Oh, gods, oh, gods. Sir, please, what is your name?”</p><p>“Achilles,” he chokes out. “Please, is he<em><em><em><em><em><em>— <em>is he all right?”<em><br/></em></em></em></em></em></em></em></em></p><p>“I… He seems a little sad, but I suppose he is well enough. Achilles, sir, is there anything I can do? I could relay a message, if you’d like.” He sits back up, draws his arms around himself again and shakes his head. Patroclus, in the House of Hades. Shakes his head, shakes his head. Stares at nothing.</p><p>“I should be going now, sir. It was nice to speak with you.” Achilles barely hears him. Achilles had not been nice in life. He is not nice now, either. No, he is a hateful, horrible wretch tearing himself apart from the inside, and he does not know how to stop.</p><hr/><p>This time when Zagreus washes up in the Styx, his jaw is clenched and muscles tense as he makes a beeline for Patroclus.<br/><br/>“Sir,” he says grimly, “I took your advice. I ran into that shade again, and I offered him a bottle of nectar, and you were right, it seemed to help, at least for a while. But, ah,” the prince hesitates, “gods, I don’t even want to tell you this.”<br/><br/>“Prince,” Patroclus replies, “whatever it is, I assure you I have heard worse. I fought a war for ten years. I have heard my share of bad news.” Zagreus winces.<br/><br/>“Right, well, er, the shade said your name when he finished drinking, so I asked what he meant by it, and he— he knelt and asked me if you were all right, and I was confused, because, I mean, this is just some random shade in Elysium—“<br/><br/>“Prince,” Patroclus interrupts again, “you are avoiding the subject.” Zagreus groans and rakes a hand through his hair. His heels spark where he scuffs them against the floor.<br/><br/>“Gods, you’re right, this is just so— Well, er, that shade is your husband. Achilles,” he finishes.<br/><br/>Oh. Oh, gods, oh, <em>Achilles.</em> Patroclus feels like the jeweled floor has dropped out from under him.<br/><br/>“Oh,” he says numbly. He schools his expression into neutrality. “Thank you for telling me, Prince.” He will be strong. It is what a father should do.<br/><br/>“Of course, sir. He seemed to— go back to his, er, previous state after I asked if he’d like to give you a message. I’ll make you the same offer, though, if you’ve anything you’d like me to tell him.” Patroclus considers. What could he say to Achilles that might offer him comfort, bring him back to himself?<br/><br/>“Should you see him again,” he begins, “tell Achilles I harbor no ill will towards him. Tell him,” he hesitates, “tell him I love him.” At this, Zagreus grins.<br/><br/>“Yes, sir.”<br/><br/>“Now go— shouldn’t you be halfway through Asphodel by now?” Patroclus offers his best teasing grin, and Zagreus’ smile turns into one of determination as he nods and begins to walk back to his chambers, throwing a last glance at Patroclus over his shoulder. Patroclus sighs. He hopes Thanatos returns soon. He could use a drink.</p><hr/><p>The stranger is back with more nectar. Achilles drinks it down greedily, chasing its pain-dulling haze. Zagreus sits silently until he is finished. When he sets the bottle on the grass, the prince speaks.</p><p>“Sir, I spoke to Patroclus. He gave me a message for you, if you’ll have it.” Achilles meets those odd eyes and sees no dishonesty in them. He nods.</p><p>“He asked me to tell you that he harbors no ill will towards you, and that he loves you still.” Achilles blinks. <em>He loves you still.</em> It is impossible. It cannot be true, but Zagreus’ face tells him it is. Patroclus loves him. Achilles thinks Tyche must smile on him, because <em><em><em>Patroclus loves him still.<em><br/></em></em></em></em></p><p>“Sir?” Zagreus’ expression has grown alarmed. “Are you— what’s— oh.” His eyes are wide as he stares at Achilles.</p><p>“What’s happened?” Achilles asks.</p><p>“You just look… younger. Er, speaking of, sir, apologies if this is perhaps a sensitive subject, but— would you maybe like assistance in cleaning some of that blood off?” Achilles jerks away from Zagreus.</p><p>“No,” he hisses, curling his shoulders in, shaking his head.</p><p>“Alright, sir, that’s alright. I just wanted to offer. I should be off now. Theseus will be waiting.” And so he leaves Achilles again, leaves him feeling lighter than he has since his death. Patroclus loves him. He looks at the golden band on his left hand. It gleams in the soft Elysian light, the lone clean spot in a sea of red. He cannot tell where his own blood ends and others’ begin. Someday, he will be free of the blood.</p><hr/><p>“Patroclus, sir!” Zagreus calls out to him even before he rounds the corner to the West Hall. He pants before Patroclus, a slight grin on his face.</p><p>“I gave Achilles your message. He’s still… a little unstuck, but he seemed pleased to receive it. And when I told him the last part, he got younger!” Zagreus is grinning and flushed with pride. It is wonderful to hear that his message had been received well, but…</p><p>“He got younger, you say? Whatever do you mean?”</p><p>“Well, when I first met him, he looked older than you. He had all these lines on his face. Now he looks maybe the same as you. He still looks— sad, tired, I don’t know, but that must be a good sign, right?” Patroclus nods.</p><p>“Did he send one in return, Prince?” Zagreus’ smile falters.</p><p>“Er, no, he didn’t. I’m sorry, sir. I forgot to even offer.” Patroclus does not let himself be disappointed. Achilles needs help. He cannot help his husband if he is caught up in bitterness.</p><p>“That’s alright, Prince. I suppose our conversations shall be quite one-sided for now. Next time you see him,” Patroclus considers, “Would you tell my Achilles that I long to see him again, and reassure him of my love?” Zagreus nods.</p><p>“Will do, sir. I’ll let you know what happens.” Patroclus nods, thanks him. When his shift ends, he goes to the lounge.</p><p>There is a new fireplace on the eastern wall, white and ornate, and it warms the room just a little too much. Patroclus’ breastplate does not fit him— it is not truly his, after all, designed for Achilles, who was always less broad in the chest than him— and today or tonight it digs uncomfortably under his arms. He is too aware of the brush of his chiton against his calves. He sits in the corner of the lounge, sipping at his nectar to distract himself from the babble of the shades. Has it always been so loud? He latches on to snippets of conversation, but they overlap and mingle and he loses them. He tugs at his locs, his beard, twists his fingers in his lap. His laurels squeeze his skull. He hates his chambers— they are empty and impersonal— but they are quiet and dark, and that is what he needs, so he goes to them. He lays upon the soft bed, eyes a bit wide, and stares into the darkness. His ring gleams gold in the darkness. He is so close.</p><hr/><p>The blood never dries. Achilles does not allow it to. He hates himself even more for what he does, but it is the only way to keep the memories away.</p><p>The stranger returns with another bottle of nectar in hand. This time, Achilles sips but does not drink it all. He saves it for later. The stranger tells him Patroclus wants to see him, that he loves him. Words return to him, finally.</p><p>“Stranger,” he begins, meeting the prince’s hopeful gaze, “would you tell Patroclus that I wait for him, that I long for him? Tell him I love him, and that I am sorry.” His brows draw together in confusion, but he nods.</p><p>Achilles can tell he wants to ask, but he holds his tongue. Achilles hesitates, then adds, “And… thank you, for the nectar and for the messages.” Achilles had not been a nice man. He will be one now.</p><hr/><p>Patroclus replays Zagreus’— <em>Achilles’<em>— </em></em>words in his mind as he sits in the lounge with Thanatos on his break. His friend had finally returned to the house and filled Patroclus in on all that had transpired with Zagreus. It seems that Thanatos had believed Zagreus’ advances to be in jest when the prince had up and left with no warning, and had thrown himself into his work as a distraction. Patroclus knows that feeling. It had happened on occasion, when he was very young, that another boy would pretend to be kind to him for a week or so before abandoning him. For a god, Thanatos is so fragile, as delicate as the butterflies that often crowd his scythe. Patroclus does his best to reassure him of Zagreus’ intentions.<em><br/></em></p><p>Much of the time, their little breaks together are spent either in silence or with Patroclus slowly coaxing out Thanatos’ frustrations. This time, however, Thanatos asks after Patroclus’ worries.</p><p>“I would not have thought you would take note of anything amiss,” he says, though not unkindly. He struggles with reading others and had merely assumed Thanatos did too. Thanatos flushes gold and ducks his head.</p><p>“Well… Zag mentioned before I… left that something had happened, that you might need to talk. I am not good with these things, but I will listen, should you want me to. I… I care about you.” Patroclus is touched that his son had taken notice of his friendship with Thanatos, even more touched that he had recognized that this perhaps required a gentler touch than Zagreus could offer. And Thanatos is trying, so he will try too. It is what a friend should do.</p><p>“You know that I am married, yes?” he begins. Thanatos nods. Patroclus chooses his next words carefully.</p><p>“Upon my death, it became clear that my husband and I were not to be together. I made… arrangements to make his afterlife as pleasant as possible. He resides now in Elysium.” Patroclus does not need to say that the cost was his service at the House. Thanatos knows how Lord Hades’ pacts work. Thanatos looks up, confused. Patroclus just sighs and continues.</p><p>“Zagreus reached Elysium on a recent run, and afterward came to me for advice on a shade he had met, who seemed more animal than man in disposition. That shade,” he finishes, “is my husband, Achilles.” Thanatos does not seem to know what to do.</p><p>“Ah,” he says quietly. Patroclus nods. They spend the rest of his break drinking silently. Patroclus does not begrudge Death for his silence. He knows it is not for lack of caring. He knows he would do the same<em>.</em></p><hr/><p>The nectar lasts him almost no time. It is hard to control himself, to keep himself from sipping it. It soothes him in a way he had only been able to achieve through decidedly worse methods. Luckily, Zagreus returns quickly, bearing more nectar and another message from his husband.</p><p>It becomes a routine, and it forces Achilles out of his own mind, if only for a little while, while Zagreus sits with him in his glade. Zagreus tells him about the House, about his lessons with Patroclus, about his own romantic troubles. Achilles offers advice when he can, more often offers his ear.</p><p>One day, Zagreus comes to him with a bright smile on his face and a light in his eyes. He tells Achilles of Orpheus and Euridice, reunited after eons spent apart. Achilles feels something begin to bloom in his chest, easing the ache there. It feels a little like hope. Zagreus is not sure he will be able to do it again. His smile turns apologetic. Achilles offers a gentle one in return. He tells him it is alright. It is not.</p><p>With each bottle of nectar he savors, the wounds close and the blood dries. The pain doesn’t work anymore, not like it used to. The nectar does, so he drinks.</p><hr/><p>Patroclus has faded. He is not sure how long since— but it is becoming increasingly hard to brush off as a trick of the light. As he stands at his post, he can make out the outline of the shaft of his spear through his fingers where he grips it. He laughs without humor. He cannot bring himself to care.</p><p>He drinks with Thanatos. He talks with Zagreus. He sends messages to Achilles, and receives them in turn. It had been thrilling, at first. Now, something deep in him and long-repressed hisses for more. It is a battle to keep that little voice out of his head that tells him he will see his husband again. He cannot allow himself to hope. He did, once. Look where it got him.</p><p>Sometimes he feels his death wound throb. He knows there is a scar there, right at the center of his ribcage. It is an ugly knot of dark, raised tissue that he can feel press against his breastplate with every breath. He wonders if all shades keep their death wounds, or only the ones left to heal improperly. Patroclus is an open wound that has festered. He is not sure how long he has left.</p><hr/><p>Achilles wakes from a dream of deep brown skin warm against his chest, his fingers knotting in long locs, staring into eyes dark as the night itself and just as starry. He does not remember lying down on the bank, but there he is sprawled, his cloak bunched uncomfortably beneath his shoulders. The taste of nectar is heavy on his tongue and his eyelids are still heavy with sleep (when was the last time he had slept? Surely not since his death.) when he hears the softest of footsteps at the entrance to his glade. They sound so like his Patroclus’ that for a moment he thinks the dream must still be lingering— but then, softly, gently, in a voice he would know anywhere, a beautiful, blessed voice, a balm to him even now, even in death: “Achilles?”</p><p>He is on his feet in an instant, limbs still loose and weak, and his knees almost immediately give way as he beholds the man in front of him. Patroclus makes a little noise of panic and dashes forward the last few steps to catch him around the waist, and then he is crying— when did that start?— and burying his face in his dear, <em>dear,</em> beloved husband’s chest as he clutches him tightly. Gently, always gently, always so <em>sweet,</em> his Patroclus, his head is pulled back and chin tilted up. The fingers on his chin are just as he remembers them— soft and warm, scratching with just a hint of calluses. Achilles lifts his hands to Patroclus’ face, his beard just as wonderfully rough a<em>s </em>he remembers under his palms, gasping for breath as hot tears pour down his own cheeks. He is laughing, choking on it, because this cannot be real, this is just another cruel trick of his mind. And then he remembers himself, remembers why they are here in the first place, and drops to his knees. Or tries to, for Patroclus catches him under his arms and hauls him back up, pressing their foreheads together.<em><em><em><br/></em></em></em></p><p><em><em><em>“</em></em></em>No kneeling, love. I deserve an apology, and I will get one, but not like this. We will talk later.” It is firm, and leaves no room for argument. Achilles thinks distantly that he must make a good father. That, and every other thought in his mind, is swept away when he feels Patroclus’ lips against his own.</p><p>It has been an age since either of them kissed another, so it is a little sloppy, lips aligned wrong and teeth in the wrong places, but they relearn the rhythm quickly. Achilles had forgotten how good it felt, to be held like this, touched like this. When they pull away, they are both panting. Patroclus cups Achilles’ face. His eyes flicker over his hair, then down at his hands, where they are braced against Patroclus’ chest.</p><p>“Oh, my Achilles. Did you— did you do this to yourself?” His expression is heart-achingly sad, and it breaks Achilles all over again. He nods and hides his head in Patroclus’ neck. It is not the whole truth— much of the gore, particularly in his hair, came from Troy. Patroclus knows that much already. A broad hand comes up to cup the back of his head tenderly.</p><p>“Will you let me help you get clean?” Patroclus asks, and Achilles tenses. But Patroclus is here now, he is here now, he does not hate him, he is not leaving him, and Achilles has atoned enough, so he nods.</p><hr/><p>Achilles leads him to the fountain chamber to wash. Patroclus walks a little behind him, their hands clasped together, and he cannot stop staring at his husband’s arms. They are coated entirely in dried blood. If Patroclus’ grief is a festering wound, Achilles’ is one that has been opened, then reopened, and opened again.</p><p>The fountain chamber is mostly empty, and it seems to have anticipated their needs, as a selection of soaps and oils is stacked neatly in a basket by the little pool. The water steams invitingly as they strip off their armor. Patroclus tries to cover the mass on his stomach as he sinks into the water. He does not want to set Achilles back. Achilles is silent, tense, as Patroclus turns them sideways on the bench, but melts as soon as Patroclus’ hands sink into his hair. Patroclus massages the olive oil soap into Achilles’ hair again and again until no red remains, until it is restored to its former gold. Then, gently, he turns Achilles around, takes one hand in his, and gets to work.</p><p>Afterward, they sit together on the cool stone floor, Achilles between Patroclus’ legs, as he massages his husband’s shoulders and back, rubs oil into the ends of his hair. When he is done, Achilles is soft and pliant and melting before him. He still has not uttered a word. Patroclus wraps his arms around Achilles’ waist and pulls him so his back is pressed to Patroclus’ chest, his head tipped backwards onto his shoulder, still-wet golden curls spilling down his chest. His eyes open slightly, little crescents of gold-green peeking through his lashes, wet and sticking to each other in little points. He is so beautiful, Patroclus had nearly forgotten. For a moment they simply stay like that, regarding each other silently. And then Achilles speaks.</p><p>“My love,” he begins, “I am sorry. I am so sorry for my hubris, for everything I put you through that night. I should have listened to you. Perhaps if I had, you might have yet lived. It was not Hector who ended your life. It was me.” Patroclus is already shaking his head before Achilles has even finished.</p><p>“No, darling. My death was fated. While I cannot say you are blameless, you could not have prevented the inevitable.” He feels tears rising in the back of his throat, pressing at the backs of his eyes. He swallows them down. He will be steady. One slips free anyway, and Achilles reaches up to catch it on the pad of his thumb. He twists in Patroclus’ arms and brings his hands up to his husband’s face, thumbs softly stroking across his cheekbones, over the mole by his left eye, grazing his eyelids, his lashes. And then the lock on that little box in the back of his mind breaks and the tears come and come and do not let up, and he is breaking in his beloved Achilles’ arms. He squeezes his arms tighter, tighter around him, pulling him impossibly closer, rocking back and forth as he weeps. He buries his face in the top of Achilles’ curls, clutching him fast, tangling his fingers in that hair, kissing it between sobs. Achilles just holds him, a hand at the nape of his neck, the other stroking his hair in just the way he used to like.</p><p>He does not know how long they stay like that, wrapped in each other’s grief on the stone floor, but by the time Patroclus’ tears have dried Achilles’ hair is already half-dry. At some point, Achilles’ tears had joined his own, and his eyes are red and puffy as Patroclus looks down into them, the two of them now standing and dressed in their chitons. Achilles surveys Patroclus’ floor-length skirt and frowns.</p><p>“I don’t like this, I think,” he says conversationally. Patroclus raises his eyebrows.</p><p>“Oh?”</p><p>“It makes it rather more difficult to ogle you, my dear. How am I supposed to admire what I can’t see?” Patroclus just smirks.</p><p>“Perhaps that is the point, darling. Lord Hades cannot have his shades dressed indecently. Look at <em>you,”</em> he clicks his tongue, “this simply would not do in the House. Too much leg.” He reaches down to draw a finger across the top of a thigh and Achilles gasps, eyes fluttering shut. He does it again, smirk spreading into a delighted grin when his husband chokes out an “Oh, you are <em>evil,</em> how could I forget?” Patroclus had never been much one for touch, but Achilles had thrived on it. It seems the same holds true now, but his tolerance for it… oh, Patroclus will have fun with this. His mind feels a little bit like a fig that’s been left on the tree too long, but torturing his Achilles is something he always has energy for. There will be time for more tears, more pain, later.</p><p>For now, he bends and catches Achilles around the middle and under his knees, hoisting him up in his arms, and Achilles squeaks at first and then throws his head back with laughter, wrapping his arms loosely around Patroclus’ neck as he carries him back to his glade. They collapse together in the grass, Achilles rolling onto his back and tugging Patroclus over with him so he is resting on his side, head propped on a hand as he looks down at his beloved.</p><p>They talk for what must be hours, about this and this and this, about Zagreus, who Patroclus learns has come to think of Achilles as something of another father figure. Patroclus tells Achilles about Thanatos, smiling fondly as he describes his dear friend. Achilles is a good listener. He always was. Then it comes to their own pain, and their words grow measured, careful, testing, neither wanting to hurt the other. Patroclus tells Achilles of that miserable time between death and afterlife, and Achilles brings a hand to his mouth and chokes on his tears and apologies. Patroclus just hushes him, tells him of the burning anger he had felt for so long, then the overwhelming nothingness since. Achilles reaches up to cradle his face once again and tells him about Tartarus, about searching Elysium, about the time he spent wrapped in his own wounds, the blood he drew from himself and from others. He is tense underneath Patroclus, scared and ready to bolt, but he does not. They talk and talk until their voices are hoarse, until Patroclus’ throat aches and his mind feels heavy and exhausted. Then they fall against each other, kissing, holding, touching, just feeling. It <em>has </em>been so long. Patroclus wants to devour him. He knows the feeling is mutual.</p><p>It is not until later, after rushed <em>goodbyes</em> and <em>I love yous</em>, when he stands again at his post in the House, that Patroclus notices. He cannot see his spear where he grasps it. He is not whole, not yet. But he is healing, and it is a start.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>pls consider leaving a comment and/or kudos if you enjoyed!! no socials to plug bc i got locked out of my hades twt rip</p></blockquote></div></div>
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